


Thistle & Weeds

by schwulerr



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25296520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schwulerr/pseuds/schwulerr
Summary: Four years have passed since Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell have been trapped in the Tower and Jonathan is starting to grow more depressed as the days pass by. He is totally crushed by the increasing amount of time that he has not seen his wife's face, or heard her voice. In England, however, Arabella Strange is working hard on breaking the curse that her husband and Mr Norrell are under to return the two magicians home.
Relationships: Arabella Strange/Jonathan Strange
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Thistle & Weeds

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't wrote in a good two years and this is my first time doing so, so I'm sorry if I'm a little rusty!

“Norrell, I have grown quite sick of this!” Strange tried to snatch the book away from Mr Norrell, who was buried nose deep into it, and who’s beady eyes were flicking from word to word.  
“I almost have it, Mr Strange, I swear it! Aha!” He jabbed his finger at the page repeatedly, “I have it, I have it! It is right here!” Norrell made his way up to the table as Strange stared at him, his brows furrowed in irritation.  
“I’m afraid, Mr Norrell, that I have read that book more than ten times and have not found anything useful,-“  
“Well clearly, you were not looking hard enough,” Norrell interrupted, picking up the candle from the desk and muttering the words from the page quietly to himself. His eyes closed softly and he tilted his head back, lifting the candle up and finally shouting, “Here!” He opened his eyes only to be met with the same empty library and Strange’s eyes still trained on him, inquisitively.

There was a short silence, until Strange broke it with “Mr Norrell, this is ridiculous!”  
“Nonsense, Mr Strange, I will get this right! Perhaps I mispronounced something, I must try it again!”  
“Mr Norrell!-”  
“Please, Jonathan,” Norrell said pleadingly, “This will work, I assure you.” With that, Strange nodded his head, defeated, and sat himself upon the step, resting his head upon one of the great pillars of Hurtfew Library.

The year was 1822, five years after the disappearance of the two magicians. They were still trapped in the darkness, and have constantly been working to try and escape, to no avail. They had no books of magic left, but had one or two books about magic, two of which were written by the two magicians themselves, and the other, a Child’s History of the Raven King, a gift given to Strange by his wife before they had married.

Strange missed his wife, naturally as any man would, and he had been away from his wife for three years when he was in the Peninsular War, even that was more painful than anything he had experienced, but five years? Five years had taken a toll on Jonathan Strange. He often had periods of time where he was so depressed, he did not leave his room, and wrote love letters to Arabella, although knowing she might never receive them. He wrote to her of his activities in a day, which mostly consisted of him reading, reading more, summoning visions of Arabella (which did not work, but he tried nonetheless), and eventually retiring to his room. He was growing tired of this continuous routine, this tedious loop, and was praying for him or Norrell to find a damned escape!

One dreary morning (every morning was dreary in the Tower), Jonathan Strange woke up and ventured downstairs into the dining room, Norrell was waiting for him with breakfast ready for him on the table. This was how it was for the past five years, and Strange still had not figured out how Norrell prepared or even found the food. Every time Strange would inquire about this, Norrell would simply laugh heartily at the question, as if it were a joke, and carried on eating.

“Good morning, Jonathan!” Norrell chirped happily, placing his teacup back down into his saucer, an empty plate sat before him, whereas on the other side of the table was a contrasting, and rather intimidating, full selection of plates. Mountains of honey cakes, french bread and brioche accompanied by three boiled eggs in golden egg cups. Jonathan’s eyes grew wide at this, as he has not seen such a meal in quite a while, (this only happened when Norrell was in a good mood, and even if he was, it would never be as extravagant as this!)

“What is the occasion?” Strange sat down and tentatively eyed the food before him. Norrell’s eyes flicked up to Strange and a great smile grew on his face, (which, Strange could not lie, was rather frightening).

“Since we are growing closer and closer to a remedy to this curse,” (Strange scoffed at this) “I believe that we should have a small celebration! We should celebrate the battles on the way to winning the war, as they say!” Norrell raised his cup in excitement and spilled tea on the tablecloth, to which he looked down and said, “Nothing can break my high spirits today, Mr Strange, not even a tea stain on this very expensive table cloth.”

After breakfast was the routine of trying out every spell they remembered, and every spell that was written in their three books, which did nothing, but still did not break Norrell’s good mood. Strange’s mood, however, was miserable. So miserable, in fact, that he left the library and his fellow magician without warning. He rushed straight to his room where he immediately changed into his bedclothes and sat at his writing desk, he hastily sharpened his pen nib before writing;

_My dear Arabella,_  
_I can hardly carry on without you, my love, with every passing day my heart grows heavier and more pained with sorrow. I am afraid that it is my time to leave, which hurts me so much more because you will not even know if I am g_

His pen dropped onto the page, splattering ink across it, and following it were Strange’s tears, rolling from his eyes like a stream. In a rage, Strange scrunched the paper up, threw it at the wall and let out an ungodly scream before falling to the floor into a ball, eventually falling asleep.

He sat on a small hill in an open field, much like the fields in Shropshire. Much like the ones that he would take Arabella to when they would have their picnics, or when they would take long walks until the sunset, when they would sit and watch the sun fall behind the horizon, silently enjoying each other’s company. Strange quietly wept at these fond memories as the gentle breeze kissed his face and ran it’s fingers through his curls.

He thought he could hear a soft voice calling his name, but ignored it, until he heard it getting louder, and he heard more emotion fill his name with each time it was called out to him. He frantically looked around and felt a hot tear fall down his face when he saw her. “Arabella,” He whispered, his voice did not allow him to speak any louder. As she came running towards him, he felt himself stand up and move in her direction, his legs carrying him faster than they ever had in his life. They finally met, their bodies crashing into each other in a desperate embrace. Arabella’s name crumbled in Jonathan’s mouth as he repeated it and repeated it, squeezing himself closer to his wife as he might not have another chance to do so.

“Jonathan,” Arabella said, prying herself away from him, stepping back a bit and admiring his face, “I am so close to finding you, my love.” Strange’s eyebrows furrowed at this, an amused, yet perplexed, expression on his face.  
“What do you mean by that?” He laughed a dry laugh, taking Arabella’s hands in his. She simply looked at him, her deep brown eyes seemed to look straight into his soul. Her hand broke free of Strange’s unintentionally, immensely strong grasp to hold his coarse cheek, tears started to form in her eyes, holding on desperately to her eyelashes, threatening to fall.

She leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead and said, “This is not goodbye my love.” As Jonathan started to protest, he felt her hands turn to mist, as gradually her entire form faded away into the breeze. He fell to his knees. He tried to cry out to his wife, but his words turned to ash and fell from his mouth onto the emerald grass.


End file.
